


You Can't Make Me

by KittyViolet



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alien Technology, F/F, Getting Dressed, Jokes, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet
Summary: “Rewards work better than punishments,” Illyana says again, and Kitty touches the silver ball.Another work in the "Days of Future Middle-Age" timeline, where Kitty and Illyana are married and teach at the future Xavier School.
Relationships: Kitty Pryde/Illyana Rasputin
Kudos: 3





	You Can't Make Me

“You can’t make me get dressed,” Illyana says, flopping down on the king-size bed and kicking her boots off so hard one would have broken a window, if the windows in the Xavier School were made of regular glass. The boot falls to the floor. Another boot falls to the floor. “I do not want to go out tonight and you can’t make me.”

Kitty’s wearing a nightgown, because she’s still recovering from jetlag; she’s taken an afternoon nap for an evening event. She’s standing by the bed. “I thought you were just fighting, like, three Pflgrzr demons,” she says. “That’s barely a workout for you on a normal day. You should see my letters of recommendation.”

“Pflgrzrzr demons,” Illyana corrects her wife. “If you keep leaving out the extra ‘rz’ you’re going to summon the damned things. And I do mean damned things.”

“Infixation is weird,” Kitty says. “Is that the language that has a special declension for plural nouns just for summoning?”

“And a suffix that means ‘having been run through with a sword,’” Illyana agrees, still face down on the bed, her blond hair splayed agreeably over a great pale pillow. “Pflgrzrzrsbood.”

“The suffix for having been run through with a sword is –bood?” Kitty wonders. She’s thinking that she’d like to flop down right beside Illyana and kiss her hair and roll her hair up in her fingers and kiss her earlobes and her nose and her lips and her shoulders and then keep kissing until everything she was wearing came off, and she’s thinking about how long that would take, since Illyana still has the leather armor that’s part of her combat uniform, the one with the boob window, which Kitty used to dislike but now kind of digs, and then Kitty says “Bood!” because she was thinking about boobs, and then she’s right down on the bed next to Ilya.

“We can’t stay here, you know. Dr. Strange is expecting us in an hour and you of all people can’t miss the Strange dinner parties and you’re not even out of your combat clothes.”

“Get me out of my clothes,” says Illyana.

“Done,” and Kitty takes Illyana’s belt and top and short pants and arm guards and calf guards, one by one, between finger and thumb, and plucks them swiftly and carefully off Illyana’s body, phasing the clothes without affecting the wearer. Then she does the same with the boots, the camisole, the custom-built sports bra (the one that goes with the boob window), the very sweaty and also custom-made panties.

“Oooh,” says Illyana, plunging her face into the pillow, liking the way the air circulates on her unclothed body. Kitty likes to contemplate that circulation too.

“It’s not that fighting those—“

“Whatever demons,” Kitty says.

“—whatever demons really tires me out. It’s just that I want to stay here with you. Also I’m kind of grimy.”

“You can de-grime with a spell if you want,” Kitty implores her. “But you can’t ghost Dr. Strange.”

“I can’t, no. I owe him too much.”

“Also we need him for that thing on Krakoa. Otherwise I’ll have to sail there again.”

“You like sailing there.”

“Not during term I don’t.”

“My Kate, sometimes I think you’d still rather be a pirate captain than a teacher.”

“You arrrrre almost correct. I liked piracy almost as much as I like school. Almost. Except when I’m drunk and then I like piracy more. Also we need to be at that dinner in the Village for Dr. Strange.”

Illyana performs a set of glyphs in the air, without opening her eyes or turning her head, and before Kitty can take her eyes away from the gloriously muscled clothes-free butt and thighs on the bed, those thighs and the rest of the body that goes with them glow and the glow subsides and this still-naked Illyana smells like honey-scented soap and looks like she just stepped out of the shower. But she’s still face down on the bed.

“I do not want to go,” she says. “Much people. No fighting. Too diplomacy. Meh food. Not me.”

“If you don’t go I’ll attempt to speak Russian,” Kitty teases.

“No.”

“If you don’t go I’ll have Lockheed burn all your meat dishes until they’re well-done before you can eat them.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Illyana mumbles.

“That’s right, I wouldn’t. But he totally would.”

“You wouldn’t let him.”

“You know me too well.”

“Rewards work better than punishments,” Illyana says. Kitty watches her head as she turns away from the pillow to face the love of her strenuous life, her bangs falling into her eyes.

“If you go I’ll do this,” Kitty says, and she phases her hand through a desk drawer and then phases back out holding a featureless silver ball, not much bigger than a malted candy.

“I’ll go,” Illyana says, and the ball starts humming and rotating, slowly, then faster, and then moves through the air, unheld and apparently unguided, until it reaches… Kitty’s crotch.

“No,” Kitty says. “I meant for you, not for me.”

“I meant for you,” Illyana says, and Kitty realizes that her wife, and not Kitty herself, is controlling the silver ball as it spins, rolls, up and down along the American mutant’s thighs, belly, thighs, belly, inner thighs, into her bush, down her clit and back and forth until it reaches her butt, self-sterilizes with a puff of heat, keeps rolling and buzzing as it slides back up until she can see it, and then there are two balls and one of them stays on the outside and the other rolls and burrows inside her, so deep she can feel herself getting wet around it, more wet, more set as the inside ball rolls through her and the outside ball rolls on her and….

“Oh,” Kitty says. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.”

“You are coming with me to this event,” Illyana says, “or I am not coming at all.”

“I’m coming.” Kitty says. “I’m—Oh. I’m—“ And she crumples onto the bed beside Illyana.

Ten minutes later she opens her eyes and says. “You’re still getting dressed.”

“Rewards work better than punishments,” Illyana says again, and Kitty touches the silver ball—it’s levitating now, poised in midair, its first job accomplished—rolls it between thumb and forefinger and flicks it until it hovers over Magik, her breastbone, her bellybutton, her tail. Her tail is in front of her now, almost protectively. The ball zeros in on the tip of her tail and rolls up and down on the tip, back and forth on the tip.

“Mmmmm,” Illyana says, flexing the tip of her tail, first slowly, then up and down as the ball follows.

Then, suddenly, she exclaims something—Russian?—and her back arches and she rolls back and forth, clenches her things, lets her tail fly straight up so it sticks out from between her legs like an antenna, so high, so stiff, so far up, and then it falls and her thighs unclench and she….

Ten minutes later than that Kitty says “You promised to get dressed in time to go to Dr Strange’s event, and you are an attraction there. I’m just your arm candy. You need to get dressed now! I’ll help.”

Kitty has Illyana’s crisp lavender dress shirt and her power slacks (the ones with the flared bottoms) laid out on the bed with a proper bra and panties and a necklace of wards and defensive potential summonings powerful enough to make Dr. Strange see that she’s not a student, much less a supplicant, but a true ally. Illyana sits up and puts them on, very slowly, reluctantly, and the necklace keeps getting caught on the buttons of the shirt.

“How butch are you feeling today,” Kitty asks, noncommittally.

“At the moment not so much. Soft, for me. But I do have balls.”

“Bad puns are supposed to be my department. Ilya, if you need that necklace, maybe wear this?” Kitty phases into the walk-in closet and comes back with a complicated top that’s right for Illyana’s physique, a few steps away from a combat costume: tan linen layers with leather insets, three zippers, and a fastener in the back, with just a bit of her taut muscled belly showing. 

“Now you’re supposed to say it’s too young for me and I’m supposed to stick out my tongue at you,” Ilya says. She can still feel, in her body’s touch-memory, the small weight of those balls.

“I would never say that,” Kitty says. “Instead I’m going to ask if you want help getting that top fastened, because I am embarrassed to say that I have never tried to help you put it on or ever seen you wear it. I just discovered it in that closet last night.”

“I saved it for a special occasion,” Illyana says teasingly. 

Kitty leans in to the zippers and hooks and fasteners and tries one after the other, almost dislocates a zipper, moves to a button, gives up.

“Have you ever worn this top?” Kitty asks, feeling defeated.

“I have.” Illyana smiles mischievously.

“Did you get help putting it on?” She’s puzzled.

“I did. In fact, I got help from the person I wore it for. And then she helped me take it off. I can't imagine wearing it without her.”

“How did she help?” Kitty asks.

“Telekinesis.” And they both smile, Kitty first. And then Kitty, still smiling, picks up her phone from the nightstand. She knows exactly who to call for help.


End file.
